"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 5 - "Mister Right?"

 

Jaymi glanced at the earnestly busy technicians and decided there was time to share a quiet moment with her best friend.

"I met a boy," Jaymi said.

 My parents never yelled at me or tried to deny what I had realized about my . . . interests, but the sense of disappointment was so heavy that I could never be comfortable with them. I think it was more frustration because they couldn’t understand than any active disapproval, but aside from any judgment on my lifestyle in the theoretical case, they were clearly disappointed that I would not be the son they had wanted and expected.

It probably didn’t help that I was always fairly solitary. That may surprise you since it’s clear that I had probably had more intimate experience than the rest of the team put together. But my relationships were always focused on one person at a time. It’s just that I was never particularly concerned about the plumbing of the individual I was in love with, and I found physical pleasure to be a wonderful thing to share. In between lovers though, I spent a lot of time alone.

So when I say I went home over furlough, what I meant was that I went back to where I grew up, more or less, not that I visited any relatives. I spent the time in a little fishing village on the coast in Maine that was far enough from my real home I didn’t figure I’d meet anyone I knew from my old life.

I love the coast. In Maine it’s rough and sort of . . . primal somehow, with the waves crashing on the unyielding rocks. The sea couldn’t care less about my sexual desires. It exists as it is and always has been, take it or leave it. And in return, it accepts everyone as they are. Implacable yet patient. I used to spend hours just walking along the shore, sitting on the rocks where I could see for miles, or hiding in a little cove where there was only the sea and me.

I was in one of those little coves one day, actually a sort of double cove with a huge boulder dividing a single little inlet into two separate spaces. The sea was nearly calm, more caressing the beach than crashing it, and aside from the gulls it was fairly quiet.

Then I heard a clatter of falling rocks, an "Oh, shit!", and a muffled thump. It came from the other part of the little inlet, blocked by the boulder from where I sat. I didn’t hear anything else after the rocks stopped clattering but, well, what would you think if you heard a curse then a thump? Anyway, I climbed my side of the big rock to look into the other half of the cove.

There was a body lying at the foot of the mini-cliff on that side, a man dressed much as I was in a bulky sweater and jeans. The rock wall where he had fallen wasn’t really all that high, maybe ten or twelve feet, but it was pretty steep which was why I had chosen to climb down where I had been sitting. Whoever had slipped must have figured he could manage the steeper portion.

I clambered over the boulder and down to where the guy was sprawled, checking even as I walked up for really awkward limb positions or other bad news. About the time I got fairly close - maybe he heard my feet on the gravelly beach or something - he stirred and moaned.

I knelt over him and said, "Take it easy. How bad are you hurt?"

His eyes flickered open, deep rich brown eyes that matched his hair and beard almost perfectly, and he said, "Oh, good. You’re not blonde."

"Excuse me?"

"You’re not blonde," he repeated. Then he smiled, making little lights dance in his dark eyes, and said, "I was always afraid that the angels would all be blonde. Assuming I made it to heaven - not likely, I’ll grant you - I didn’t want to have to become another boring blonde. So a dark-haired angel is very satisfactory, thank you very much."

I knew I should have said something about that silly flattery, but before I could think of any good words I just had to laugh. Maybe it was the relief or something, but I laughed so hard I lost my own balance and ended up sitting gracelessly on the gravel.

He propped himself on one elbow so that he could look at me right side up, wincing a bit as he moved. But after a few tentative range-of-motion experiments, he sat up beside me. Sticking out his hand he said, "Jason Taylor."

"Jaymi Fox," I replied, shaking his hand.

"Hmm, an angel who’s truly a fox? Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. You won’t vanish when my headache goes away, will you?"

"Hardly," I chuckled. "Unless you’re trying to say that I’m the source of your headache."

"Uh, no," he said simply. I was pleased that he didn’t try to make some sort of artificial apology for what had really been an unfair twist to his words on my part.

"Truly, are you okay?" I asked, concerned again now that I had absorbed the idea that I, of all people, should be an angel.

"Nope," he replied. "I have a very serious injury."

"What’s wrong?"

"My pride is desperately bruised," he declared. "Only the pleasant companionship of an angel - dark-haired by preference - can possibly assuage my distress."

"If I find an angel - dark-haired or otherwise - I’ll be sure and send her your way," I promised.

He surprised and impressed me again by not protesting that I had misunderstood what he had been saying. Instead, he nodded and said, "You do that. In the meantime, how about trying some local remedies with me? Something appropriately therapeutic can no doubt be found in town."

I ran my hands through my wind-blown hair and tugged at my damp sweater. "Oh, God, I couldn’t go into town, at least not more than to sneak into my room. I look like something three days dead that washed up on the beach . . ."

Whatever else I might have planned to say was smothered within his beard. He kissed me thoroughly, passionately, and deliberately. I’m not sure how long it was, because I sort of lost track of things like breathing that I could have used to measure. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t long enough.

When he let me up for air, he said, "My foxy lady, I’ll let you misunderstand or misinterpret anything of what I say that you want. But when it comes to actual lying, why, I just feel that honor compels me to break you of that habit."

"Lying?" I said, still dazed from his kiss. Honest, that’s what it was.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have seen since my eyes opened as a pup," he claimed.

"Ooh, that’s way over the top," I replied, but I could hear my own voice go sultry and low and I knew in my heart I loved it. So sue me.

He was leaning to kiss me again, and I hope to tell you I was ready to meet him more than half way, when we heard a horn followed by some catcalls that put the gulls to shame. A fishing boat cruising the coast had passed our little cove and the crew was offering all sorts of suggestions. Thankfully, their voices were distorted enough that all I could make out was the tone. That was bad enough.

I stood up more by reflex than conscious plan. Jason scrambled to his feet as well, moving with controlled power that proved without a doubt he hadn’t really been injured. When he stood up, I could see that he was much taller than I had thought. It made him look suddenly thin instead of, oh, merely trim. It looked good on him, though. All of the sudden I had this image of a ship’s mast; tall and flexible, yet strong enough to stand up to a storm.

"So much for the idea of a private bit of beach," he grumped.

"I really have to go," I claimed, brushing gravel from my fanny.

"Good, then we can go find that, ah, therapeutic elixir," Jason said, brushing at himself. He turned to look at the rocks he had fallen from and grimaced. "Maybe we shouldn’t have let that boat get away."

"It’s not as steep on the other side," I said, pointing at the boulder I had climbed to reach him.

"Lead on, Angel."

That got him another smile, as I’m sure he knew it would. But I was already half way up the rock when I realized that he had tricked me into agreeing to go get a drink with him. Or at least into not telling him no again. He kept surprising me though, by not taking advantage of the climb to, well, take advantage or anything. There were times when a hand steadying my fanny as I climbed wouldn’t automatically have been inappropriate, but while I could tell he was ready to catch me if I slipped, he never touched me until we were up on the trail above the cliffs.

What really stuck in my mind was that I was disappointed.

When we got to the top, he said, "Well, I think the first round is on me."

Then he introduced a problem by turning north.

"My hotel is this way," I said, pointing south.

"Okay," he said easily, turning my way.

"Look, Jason, I really do need to get cleaned up," I said. "If you want, maybe we could meet later."

"Deal," he said quickly. Deliciously so. "I’ll pick you up about, oh, 7:00 and we’ll get a bite to eat with our ‘medicinal’ liquids."

I nodded, and after he found out where I was staying is when he touched me again. Only this time it was just to shake my hand. I had to keep my eyes down so that he couldn’t see how disappointed I was, and it wasn’t until later that I realized that meant I couldn’t see if he was disappointed as well.

As soon as he was out of sight, I practically ran back to my room to get ready. That part of Maine is sort of funny about styles. If you’re working - and their work ethic is so strong that if you’re not, why not? - then jeans and a sweater are almost an issued uniform. But if you have an excuse *not* to be working, then women are expected to be feminine. Very feminine. I had lost several propriety points with the locals for having only collar length hair and wasn’t about to lose any more by looking like a street urchin on a dinner date.

Of course, like everything in my life seemed lately, there were complications. I hadn’t really planned on much in the way of social occasions on the trip. I only had a couple of nice outfits, and one of those was just a skirt that I could wear with a sweater. That didn’t seem . . . sufficient for a real night ‘on the town,’ even such as that little village had to offer. So that left me with my one real dress. At least it wasn’t as short as the ones Carol wears. Like that limit meant anything as far as propriety was concerned. Nor was it as . . . well, let’s just say that it was flattering but not quite indecent even by the standards of New England. Dark red, like most of my nice clothes - at least the Army-issue ones - the only thing that was guaranteed to raise a few eyebrows was that it was a quite snug-fitting knit that would show off my equally Army-issue curves.

Seven o’clock came way too soon, but I did have the advantage of a woman’s right to keep her date waiting. I didn’t abuse it though. About five minutes after he called the room, I was stepping off the elevator. I knew you would all understand, but I was glad right then that none of the rest of the team were there. I’m not really in your class - don’t shake your head - and Carol has this sort of ‘presence’ that just grabs attention and won’t let it go. When I’m with you all, I feel like I fit in well enough but that’s really the problem, in a way. I don’t ‘stand out.’ Quit smirking and adjusting your straps so smugly. You know what I mean.

Well, stepping off that elevator, I definitely got noticed. It was like someone had set off a hush-a-bomb in the room, with silence rolling out from where I stood. That little hotel had a sort of combination lobby and lounge that was really the only gathering point in town so there was a good sized crowd. It didn’t take long for them all to get very quiet, though.

Then Jason stepped forward. "Damn, there goes my fantasy."

"What?" Really elegant, that’s me. At least I didn’t say, ‘huh?’

"Nope, fantasy number one is right down the tubes," he repeated. "I just can’t see you, in that outfit, as an angel. WAY too dangerous for an angel. You’re going to be causing accidents all night."

"I, uh, it’s all I had to . . ."

"Don’t you dare apologize," he ordered. "I think being with an imp is going to be a LOT more fun."

"Oh," I said, feeling a blush mount my cheeks. Then I decided I’d give as good as I got. If I could. Anyway, I arched a brow, put a little promise in my smile, and said, "You never know."

That man could do the most amazing things to my emotions. One moment we’re getting, um, close, and the next he’s back to formal. Instead of following up on that opening, he just smiled and offered me his arm like we were about to meet the king or something and escorted me to his car, um, to his truck. SUV’s were popular up there before they were even called SUV’s. He had a fairly new Ford Expedition that looked well cared for. There was only one problem. It was about two feet higher than I could comfortably climb into while wearing that dress.

Jason to the rescue. I think he was waiting for just that moment because he gathered me up in his arms - did I mention he was really tall? - and lifted me toward the seat. That got his arms around me and mine went around his neck almost by reflex. After that, it as sort of like, ‘Bam!’ and things happened, um, automatically.

Some time later I realized we were getting some, um, encouragement from the bystanders. I didn’t really care, but Jason pulled his head back and smiled. "Later," he whispered and I purred a contented little hum to accept his offer.

Then, when he was walking around to his own side of the car, I realized I *couldn’t* really accept his offer. I mean, I could, ah, do some things later, just not the things he was expecting. At least, not all of them. Which meant I couldn’t really do ANY of them. I could kiss him all night long (and would LOVE to) but . . . but when he said, ‘Later’, I didn’t think he had more kissing in mind. At least, not only more kissing. And I didn’t want to, um, get started under false pretenses as it were. Okay, so I had already let things get started, but I couldn’t let them, uh, proceed to their logical conclusion based on a lie.

This was the first time I had ever faced that problem. Isn’t that a hoot? All of my previous experiences had been with people who knew James Fox, not Jaymi. If I ended up sharing something with someone special, it was always based on the truth about who, or what, I was. This was the first time I had ever hidden that. Even though I really felt like Jaymi, not James, my plumbing told a different story.

Jason hopped up into the car on his side, but before he even got the door closed he picked up on my distress. "What’s wrong?"

Oh, God, another problem. What should I tell him? I had promised myself the very first day I dressed as Jaymi that I would NEVER use the trite excuse of ‘my time of the month’ to put a guy off. Compounding one lie with another just didn’t seem right. That applied to all the other convenient lies. I didn’t have an STD. I wasn’t a virgin saving myself for marriage. I just wasn’t . . . a real girl.

"Jaymi?" he asked, still looking for an answer to his question.

"Oh, um, nothing," I said, ending up in a lie anyway. It didn’t really count since he could tell I wasn’t telling the truth. But he scored another point when he let me have my lie and just nodded.

"Italian okay?" he asked as we started.

"In this town?" I asked, surprised.

"Sure. Despite what you tourists from the South think, we’re gettin’ real civilized up here in the frozen North."

"I’ll have you know I grew up not fifty miles from here."

"Then why didn’t you think we had Italian restaurants?" he challenged with a smile.

Geez, he just kept scoring points. He didn’t ask where I had grown up. His smile said it would be okay to tell him, that he was interested, but he wouldn’t pry. That was just . . . wonderful. Of course, it made me feel even worse.

"Ah, well, it’s been a while since I’ve been back," I excused myself.

"Good, then you can be pleasantly surprised," he said.

I was, and not only by the cuisine. I shouldn’t have been. I mean, by that time I knew that Jason was really special. But he kept surprising me not only by the way he could ask - and not ask - the right things. It turned out he was, well, interesting, too. He liked the same authors I liked (the ones that are available in the bookstores, anyway). He found the Oscars unbearably pretentious - score BIG points for that - so he didn’t go to many movies, pardon me, *films*. We just talked and talked, and everything we talked about was fascinating fun.

It was what we didn’t talk about that kept bothering me.

Like all good things (and even the unpleasant ones), the meal finally came to an end. "Goodness, what time is it?" I asked suddenly, realizing that regardless of the number on the dial it was already late.

He didn’t answer, at least not with words. The look in his eyes - dear God, for the first time since I had met him there was sadness in there and I don’t think I ever wanted him more - the look in his eyes showed a need that wasn’t only physical, wasn’t even mostly physical. I remembered that when we had met, he was trying to find a place of privacy, too.

I could feel my own eyes burning as they filled with tears I didn’t dare shed. Not that it helped. He noticed anyway. This time he asked the question in a way that said he wouldn’t accept silence or evasion. "What’s wrong, Jaymi?"

"Not here," I said. He nodded and accepted that, but it was not a pardon, only a reprieve.

"I need to, um . . ." I said, or started to say.

He smiled and kept me from having to mention the unmentionable, after all this was New England, and pointed at the right part of the restaurant. "You go ahead. I’ll get the check."

"Oh, no, I’ll pay my share," I said.

"Over my dead body," he replied. "Angel or imp, no pretty girl pays the check when she’s already given me the favor of her company for, ah, for even as short a while as this."

What could I say to that? Did I tell him, right then and there that he hadn’t been granted ‘the favor’ of a girl’s company at all? That’s another thing that had never happened before, the financial thing. When people knew I was James, they might offer to split the check, but they never just assumed it was their responsibility. Yet, this was a significant expense, more than a simple drink, and obtained under very false pretenses.

In the end, I just ran away like a coward. Well, walked really, but he paid the check while I took the obligatory trip to the ladies room. That was so much of a habit that I didn’t even think about how it was another element of the problem, at least not until I was putting my lipstick away and walking *out* of the room to meet him on the other side of the door that said, ‘Ladies’.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked gently. Yet it was a demand as well and I nodded in recognition of that.

"Tongues would wag is we went back to my room," I said.

"Don’t tease me," Jason chuckled, then frowned. "Sorry."

I tried to smile, but I could tell it didn’t come out very well.

This time when he lifted me back into his truck, that’s all he did. I could feel the tears fill my eyes again but I managed not to lose control until he had the car started and we drove off. He didn’t ask any more questions, but it was clear he had a plan.

It would have been funny if it weren’t so serious. We drove to a scenic spot overlooking the ocean. Lover’s lane, in other words. We weren’t even the only car there, though I’d have been surprised if anyone else was over twenty.

"Okay, Jaymi," Jason said. "We’re private enough to talk, but not so private that, well, that there’s anything to worry about. You can flat out tell me to mind my own business and I’ll take you home. But you haven’t done that. I’m betting that means you have something you’d like to talk about, but don’t feel you can. All I can offer is my promise that no matter what you tell me, I’ll still respect you in the morning."

He said the last with a smile, one that touched his lips but not his eyes. We both knew it was for effect, saying more about our fears than reaching for our sense of humor. My own answering smile was a lot like that, too.

All of the sudden it was just too much for me; the lies, the desires that I had lied even to myself about for so long, the obscene rules in a society that says love is bad in so many ways, and good only in so few. I decided, between one heartbeat and the next, that I was not going to lie to Jason any longer. I trusted him enough not to attack me for the lies I had told so far even as I thought that to myself I knew it was still a risk. I had lied to him, humiliated him publicly if my real nature got out, but my heart trusted him. Was that overpowering a more accurate message from my mind? Still, I didn’t really think he’d get violent, and even if he tried something, the unarmed combat skills I had learned from El Supremo should keep me out of real trouble - at least of the physical sort. And I figured I could walk back to my hotel even in my not-made-for-walking shoes if he kicked me out for . . . for being who I really was.

Even before I said a word he could tell that I had made a decision. He smiled in a way that showed he expected to surprise me again. That was, well, that was another point he scored; that he knew he had been scoring points. Does that make any sense? It showed real sensitivity, coupled with the serenity not to need to prove it.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "I’m not . . . who you think I am."

"You mean you really are an angel after all?" Jason asked lightly.

"No, not an angel," I said. "I . . ."

I ran down. My mind was made up. I was going to tell him. I just couldn’t decide how to do it. I mean, could you just blurt out, ‘I’m not really a girl!’? I’d rather just slap him and get out of the car. He deserved better than that. I just didn’t know how to give it to him.

"Let me tell me," he said, confusing me for a minute while I figured out his sentence.

"I know after your kisses that you find me attractive. You know I find you attractive. Pardon me if this is, um, insulting or something, it’s not meant to be, but anyone who kisses as passionately as you is not a shy virgin waiting for some impossibly perfect Prince Charming, nor committed to someone whom you think of that way. Yet, I also don’t believe you’re, ah, casual enough with your love that you’ve caught something unsafe. You’re too torn up about this for the standard excuse to be a problem right now or you’d just use it, and something like terminal cancer is too cliché to be true. What does that leave?"

He answered his own question, at least in part. "Whatever it is, you’re worried more about what I will think of you after you tell me than you need to be. I truly mean that. You arouse my passions - claiming anything else would be silly. But your soul is too gentle for hatred and I won’t be the one to put any there. Trust me."

I felt more than saw him put his arms around me, but I turned to his embrace like a lost child. "You just don’t know," I whispered.

"Then tell me," he said with exquisite gentleness.

"All my life I’ve been different," I said slowly, approaching the problem obliquely. "In some ways, I’ve told myself I was, ah, ‘more’ than other people, that I was like others only with something extra. But that’s self-justifying and I’ve come to believe that I don’t need to measure myself against others anyway."

"Good," he whispered, not so much interrupting as affirming.

"No, it’s not. Not right now," I said. "You see, you’ve assumed that you know what I’m like, because you’ve assumed you could place me in the spectrum of people you’ve already met. But I’ve misled you. I’m not, um, I’m not really what I look like."

"Don’t ‘assume’ what I’ve assumed," he said softly, then he tried once again to lighten the mood. "I never really figured you for an angel. Honest."

"That’s not it and you know it," I said, smiling through my tears at his determination to milk that joke in the face of my . . . concern. It worked, though. Not enough to make me anything like happy, but enough that I could continue.

"When I was growing up, I found myself attracted to lots of people," I said, then paused for a beat, tensing for his reaction. "Boys and girls, both."

"Ah," he said, but his arms never even twitched. He just kept holding me, comforting me. The points for that sent him *way* past the finish line and I knew at that moment that he had won my heart. I loved him. With the rational part of my mind, I recognized that he was still thinking of me as a woman and that he thought I had just confessed to some delightfully naughty girl-girl desires. But the rational part of my mind was buried beneath the emotional. He had neither been shocked nor noticeably aroused by the thought of me in a same-sex relationship. He had just accepted it, and for that I loved him. I knew, though, that I had not won *his* heart, not honestly. And it was time to be honest. Now for the bomb that would close his heart to me in the very moment that mine became his.

"Boys like me," I whispered.

In a funny sort of way, I loved him even more for the fact his arms did indeed twitch then, and his body stiffened. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe it was because he recovered so quickly. He never pushed me away or anything, just stiffened for a moment, then squeezed me again. It made him more, I don’t know, real or something. Not that impossibly perfect Prince Charming he had said I didn’t need.

"Is that all?" he asked. His voice showed a lot of strain that made it clear the question was from his mind, not from his heart, but he was so wonderful even to manage that. I tried to sit up, to give him an excuse to let go of me without making it his fault.

He wouldn’t let me. It wasn’t that he was rough or anything, but the gentle pressure of his arms didn’t relax at all, pulling his own lean body just a bit toward mine when I tried to pull away. "Tell me about it," he asked, and I knew he wasn’t after prurient details. He wanted to know how I had come to look the way I did.

"I can’t, really," I said, telling the truth for once. "There are good reasons for that, honest. But I, um, despite the way I look on the outside, I am still a, uh . . . "

"Allow me to disagree," he said softly, caressing my hair. "I’ve seen into your soul when we talked, and into your heart when we kissed. I don’t doubt what you say about your . . . background, but to me you are still a beautiful, gentle woman. That’s enough for me. At least, for now."

Did I say that I loved him? Well, I didn’t even have a clue.

 

Jaymi’s tale was interrupted by a tap on the glass of the centrifuge that almost sent Sandy into orbit without a rocket. A technician was motioning them to put their headsets back on, but that didn’t stop Sandy’s anguished wail.

"Not now!" she cried. "Tell me, quick, what happened?"

Jaymi smiled and said, "He took me back to my hotel."

Sandy’s exasperated grimace was almost operatic. "And . . . ?!"

Jaymi blandly ignored the question as she busied herself pulling her headset into position.

For a moment it looked almost like Sandy was going to slap her shorter-haired sister. But she must have decided on homicide by deadly glance because all she did was arrange her own headphones and mike while glaring daggers at her best friend. Once she had her equipment in place, Sandy snapped, "Beech to Test. Are you ready yet?"

Jennings’ voice was carefully formal as he replied, accepting the rebuke in Sandy’s tone but countering with an implicit demand for professionalism. "Test to Beech, sorry for the delay. We’re ready to begin the exercise."

"Fine," Sandy snapped, but as she pulled her head back against her headrest, she relaxed and smiled at Jaymi, blowing her a kiss. Mouthing an, "I’ll get you later" threat, she reached for her first control task.

 

(continued in next part)

 

 

 

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SMITE 2 - Pheromone Pharmacopia © 2001 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.